


The Stench of Lost Children

by himjongs



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himjongs/pseuds/himjongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A decent day for orphans during the Korean War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stench of Lost Children

They slept hand in hand on hard, frigid ground. 

Jongin noted kyungsoo's rough hand wrapped around his own. Even though it had probably been pressed against his own skin for hours, warmth was almost impossible to keep. It was transitory. Much like happiness. 

Jongin was eight years old and already past the stage of sighing and complaining. He supposed war could do that to a person. Maybe in some other lifetime, in some other world, a pleasant childhood could be attainable. But there was no use wondering, really.

Kyungsoo shifted. He didn’t have to open his eyes for Jongin to know he was awake. “The snow stopped,” Jongin whispered to him.

Naturally, Kyungsoo didn’t want to open his eyes. He would never say it out loud, he had to be strong for the younger children in the makeshift orphanage, but he wouldn’t mind dying in his sleep. He briefly wondered if his despair was constantly written on his face. At thirteen, he felt eighty. 

 

Kyungsoo eventually forced himself up. Rubbed at his prickly eye and helped the women of the shelter ration a meager amount of food. He made it his business not to get too close to anyone. Did his best not to stare too long at the children renamed, for they were too young to know their given names. They were probably all he had, but Kyungsoo felt better knowing he had nothing to lose. Jongin on the other hand, he sort of attached himself to Kyungsoo and the older didn’t have the energy to ward him off.

 

When Jongin suggested they go for a walk, Kyungsoo was weary, but relieved all the same. Sure it was dangerous and freezing, but if he were shot in the head it would all be over. He’d have nothing more to worry about anymore. Maybe he would even meet his father again. If Jongin were harmed on the other hand, Kyungsoo didn’t want to think about that. 

Jongin easily slipped on a dusty black coat Kyungsoo pulled off of a dead soldier weeks earlier. Kyungsoo had still found it hard not to shudder at the sight of it and stuck to his nearly fingerless gloves.

The boys trudged a few feet away from the only place that could come close to a home. They ended up resting quietly on a mass of debris that was once a shop. Jongin leaned back to take in the cloudless blue sky and grinned. “It’s nice today huh?” 

Kyungsoo glanced up at the sky and back and Jongin. “I guess.” 

Jongin shrugged. Knowing Kyungsoo wasn’t much of a talker, he kept quiet for a while. Eventually he inched away from Kyungsoo and rolled up his tattered pant leg. Being as discreet as he could, Jongin began to pick at the scab crusted in the center of a sickly green and black bruise. 

Kyungsoo immediately narrowed his eyes when he realized what he was doing. "Stop scratching. It'll get infected."

"It itches," Jongin scrunched his nose.

"It's healing," Kyungsoo replied softly. He turned away and focused on the road alongside them. Another stress he endured daily was his weak stomach. He hated pretending he had thick skin. Possibly even resented the children he was obligated to care for because he should have been in his own home being nurtured into adulthood himself. He wasn’t done being a child. 

Kyungsoo shifted atop the rugged stone digging into his backside. All around him, his country- his home was in ruins. What was left of storefront signs clung desperately to destroyed buildings. A scorched shoe here and there. Propaganda posters littered the ground. Even dusted in white powder, everything was so ugly. 

Among it all, Kyungsoo’s eyes fell on Jongin beside him. His gangly limbs and full dark fluffy hair. An unintended smile tugged at Kyungsoo’s lips as he reached out to ruffle it. Jongin met his eyes with his own sparkling smile. Kyungsoo breathed in deeper than he had in a long time. Coupled with Jongin’s bright eyes, the thin layer of snow covering the rubble swiftly aroused in him something akin to peace. For a moment he felt a quick burst of full spirit, not tarnished by desolate roads lined with frozen lifeless bodies. 

Just as fast as it showed up, Kyungsoo’s smile disappeared and he looked away. Jongin pursed his lips and nodded to himself. He kicked a rock across the road and hummed. “What if the war never ends?” he voiced politely.

“Don’t say stupid things, Jongin.” Kyungsoo rubbed at his eye. 

"I'm not afraid," Jongin declared.

"You always say that," Kyungsoo replied with a hint of annoyance and a sense of finality.

"'Cause I'm not," Jongin muttered, lowering his eyes. His courage may have been impressive if Kyungsoo was someone else. Someone who hadn’t seen his father dragged out of his home and beaten to death within minutes. Jongin had only been separated from his fleeing family, which left a gleam of hope in his young eyes. Kyungsoo imagined their fate something more grim than Jongin’s insistence on their joyful reunion. He hadn’t seen his own father’s blood spill into dirt.

Kyungsoo got up and took a few steps to get the blood flowing in his legs. He decided they would have to get back inside soon if they didn’t want to freeze to death; or worse contract some sort of nasty illness. He spotted a shiny piece of metal in the snow. Crouching down, he took the chance to examine his reflection. Just as he thought, he looked horribly thin and homeless. Worse than that, his right eye was a light shade of pink. Kyungsoo groaned and reflexively rubbed at it again. In the peripheral of his good eye, he noticed a vehicle in the distance. Dropping the metal he stood to his full height, “The truck.”

Jongin’s head jerked up. He ran off towards the shelter without bothering to unroll his pants or wait for Kyungsoo.

 

American soldiers handed out scarves and hot sweet potatoes. Although they could hardly exchange a word with the foreigners, it was mostly good news when they came by. Kyungsoo was grateful, but found himself hardly able to praise the men like the other children. He often hung out back while the others rushed the trucks. Jongin would always bring him something so he never worried about missing out on putting something warm in his stomach, or on his feet.

Hot starchy mush filled the cracks Kyungsoo’s his chapped lips. The sting was nothing compared to the pain in his empty stomach. Most days it took all he had not to go out and beg for a bowl of white rice. Or even take his chances in joining the North, because hell, he wasn’t sure what he was living for anyway. Kyungsoo glanced at Jongin, who often said he felt like his stomach was touching his back, scarfing down his own orange potato. 

"Slow down,” he said in a tone his father would have used with him. “It'll last longer."

Jongin swallowed and licked a crumb from the corner of his mouth. "You're right," he nodded, taking slower bites.

 

Back inside with the stench of lost children and Jongin warming his side, Kyungsoo decided it was a decent day. Every child in the orphanage woke up that morning. There were no tiny lifeless bodies he needed to help build a coffin for. No one had come to round them up and herd them to a safer place. Jongin wasn’t being terribly clingy. Nor did he hear the familiar blasts in the distance. Or see any smoke rising in the air, aside from the steam rising from what was left the only treat he’d have for a long while. Kyungsoo sighed, “Another day,” he mumbled to himself.

“Just hold on, hyung,” Jongin said rubbing his shoulder.

Kyungsoo nodded before quietly repeating, “Just hold on on.”


End file.
